


Tumblr drabbles

by Bricker



Category: Free!, Haikyuu!!
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 11:04:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6953908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bricker/pseuds/Bricker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Practically my dumping ground for tumblr requests I get for different pairings. :p</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sourin #55

Sourin: prompt 55: “A picnic date on the beach under the stars? Did you swallow a romance novel? Should I call a doctor?” 

—-

 

“Sousuke, you’re scaring me a little.”

“Just relax. We’re almost there.”

Rin frowned and tugged at the blindfold Sousuke had wrapped around his eyes not fifteen minutes before. He’d been lured out of their hotel room in Iwatobi with a mysterious promise for a nice surprise, momentarily distracting him from the police files he’d been spending the majority of the night on. They’d come to Iwatobi on a insider trading case, and he hadn’t expected much from the evening, so Sousuke’s sudden insistence on putting a blindfold on him and leading him outside had been an odd surprise. He teetered, almost slipping on what felt to be gravel, and gripped Sousuke’s hand tighter. A gentle wind touched his face, and the cool night air made goosebumps erupt up his arms. “Why does it feel like we’re outside? Are you luring me out into the cover of darkness to murder me?”

Sousuke laughed, his deep voice a throaty purr compared to the trilling sounds of the night. “No, nothing like that. Don’t worry, this is a nice surprise.”

“Hm. That sounds exactly like something a murderer would say,” Rin said, smiling to himself. The gravel beneath his hastily slipped on flip-flops gave way to sand, individual grains tickling the sensitive sides of his feet. He stumbled after Sousuke, seeking his reassuring warmth as the moved. Sousuke held him loosely, teasingly, his touch a mere brush a fingers. Well, it would’ve been, if Rin hadn’t been gripping his hand for dear life. The fear of faceplanting in the sand was a little too realistic to allow his grasp to loosen. “Where are you taking me? This better not be a jump scare.”

“I told you. It’s a good surprise,” Sousuke said, the soft smile evident in his voice. “Don’t you trust me?”

“I think I have the right to be hesitant, since the last time you did something like this you managed to convince me that one of your fingers was cut off.”

Sousuke laughed at the memory. “To be fair, I won a hundred yen from Nitori for making you screech. That kid overestimates your toughness to a ridiculous amount.”

“Shut up. I’m the biggest badass there is.”

“You cry every time we watch ‘Marley and Me.’ Literally every time.”

“Did you bring me out here just to ridicule me, Sousuke?” Rin huffed. He tugged at the blindfold again, threatening to slip it down to rest around his neck. “Because if so, tell me now, so I can leave your sorry ass out here and go back to our warm hotel room.”

“Hey, don’t take the blindfold off,” Sousuke said, his fingers brushing Rin’s forehead as he secured it over his eyes. “C’mon, just a little further. You’re going to love me for this.”

Rin groaned. “Am I? Because so far, all I am is cranky, blind, and cold.”

“Yes. Have a little faith in me, for once.”

“Sousuke-”

“Okay. Stop right here,” Sousuke said, his voice oddly excited. He slipped his hand out of Rin’s grip, and Rin teetered, before righting himself with his arms held out. Sousuke moved behind him and slowly undid the knot of the blindfold. His fingers brushed the scarlet hair tucked behind Rin’s ears, making him shiver. The fabric fell away, barely more than a ghost on Rin’s skin as it slipped down the slope of his nose and dropped to settle around his throat. Warm breath touched the shell of his ear as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the night sky. “See? A good surprise.”

Rin’s breath caught. Laid out before them was a large, checkered picnic blanket, the classic red and white kind from sappy romance movies and films about a family and their dog. Snuggled in the center of it was a straw-woven picnic basket, a tiny, homemade bouquet of flowers and a collection of seashells resting on its lid. A quilt sat beside it, practically begging to be snuggled into.

“Sousuke, what…?”

“A picnic date,” Sousuke replied simply. He moved to Rin’s side, theirs fingers brushing. “I put it together while you were renting the hotel room.”

Rin glanced up at him, his eyebrows lifting. “You did this?”

“Yeah. I wanted to surprise you. You’ve been working really hard, so…”

“A picnic date on a beach under the stars?” Rin said. He smiled wide, laughing softly, and gave Sousuke a quizzical look. “Have you swallowed a romance novel? Do I need to call a doctor?”

Sousuke pulled a face. “Oh, so I’m the one being ridiculed, now, am I?”

“Can you blame me?” Rin shook his head and gestured to the picnic, grinning uncontrollably. “I mean, you hardly seem to do stuff like this normally…”

Sousuke brought his eyebrows together, his bright gaze flashing with something akin to concern. “Do you not like it?”

“What? No, no, I love it!” Rin said, wincing at the unnecessary volume of his voice. “Sorry. You just caught me off guard, is all.”

Sousuke relaxed, the corner of his lips quirking up and creating dimples in the hollows his cheeks. “Good. You scared me, for a second.”

“It really is wonderful,” Rin gushed, making sure to put extra conviction into his voice. “And it’s just what I needed, I think. We’ve both been working hard, and spending some actual quality time together out here like this is perfect.”

Sousuke nodded, entwining their fingers. “That’s what I figured.”

“And it’s gorgeous. Did you pick the flowers and find the shells yourself?”

“…Yeah.”

Rin couldn’t help a downright goofy grin, his heart swelling with affection. “You even picked out a quilt for us to share.”

“Um, yeah…” Sousuke said, his cheeks slightly flushing in the moonlight. He avoided Rin’s gaze and rubbed the back of his neck. “Geez. Stop looking at me like that. There’s a reason why I don’t normally do stuff like this, you know.”

Rin laughed. He lifted a hand to touch Sousuke’s face, grazing his soft skin and letting his fingers drift along the angle of his jaw. He settled on Sousuke’s chin and pulled him down for a kiss, their mouths meeting softly. The collision of their lips was warm and comforting, a sweet contrast to the breath of the cool wind against their faces. When Rin pulled away, Sousuke kept his eyes closed for a moment, his eyebrows lifted and his mouth parted from the kiss. He looked absolutely starstruck, and Rin couldn’t help but laugh again. What an idiot. “You’re so cute. Thank you.”

“Sure thing,” Sousuke mumbled, his voice almost loopy. He opened his eyes sleepily, the moonlight turning their turquoise depths to silver. He smiled that heart-breaker smile of his, the dimples returning in his cheeks. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Rin hummed. He smiled, positively delighted with how easily the words had fallen from his lips. It wasn’t too long ago that neither of them could utter that simple phrase without stammering like embarrassed school children. To say it so effortlessly, so genuine and casual… It was like puzzle pieces falling perfectly together.

Sousuke pulled away, squeezing Rin’s hand. He nodded to the picnic basket. “Should we eat?”

“Definitely.”


	2. Soumako #100

Anonymous asked: soumako + 100: "I'm a lot of things that you wouldn't expect."

———-

The pretty, pretty boy with the piercings and the ivy tattoo came to Sousuke’s flower shop with the first blossoms of spring. 

He’d been admiring them from the shop window that morning, a small smile on his lips as he studied the tiny pink buds of his marigolds outside, in their pots lining the shop’s walls. They’d opened up overnight, probed into action by the tender fall of rain, and their papery petals were only just beginning to spread. Poking out of the black soil of their pots with their petals pursed, they looked like a row of kiss-ready lips, turned to the sun to peck at its comforting rays. By the end of the month, they’d be completely opened, their round, colorful faces the first to greet customers on their way inside. Sousuke had also planted some daisies around the base of their roots to compliment their bright colors. They hadn’t even begun to sprout yet, but they would by the following week, hopefully. 

He’d been so invested in studying the buds and their varying levels of progression that he jumped when the bell above the door tinkled, signaling someone’s entrance. He glanced up, and his heart momentarily stopped.  
A pretty, pretty boy, with a face that could rival the most lavish of lilies. He was tall, slender in the waist and broad in the shoulders, with toned, tan arms and long legs. His chestnut hair was styled rather recklessly, the back and sides cut short in an undercut and his longer, ruffled bangs just barely brushing into his right eye. Silver earrings shown in his ears, with a little bud in his eyebrow to match. He wore an aged plaid shirt over a nice-fitting black tank-top, and a pair of blocky dark glasses settled on his nose that only made those fern-green eyes brighter. 

A very, very pretty boy. But it was the tattoo peeking out of the collar of his shirt that really caught Sousuke’s attention. 

Ivy tendrils. Delicately inked into the boy’s skin, curling across the crook of his throat and appearing again along the curve of his right bicep. They were gorgeous: glossy, carefully drawn leaves, spiralling stems, a touch of blue to give off the impression of dew. Sousuke had tended to many ivy plants in his time as a flower-shop owner and gardener, and he was thoroughly impressed with how perfectly the tattoo captured the simple beauty of the tendrils. It almost looked as if this pretty, pretty boy had been draped by the leaves and stem of a wonderfully cared for, fantastically preserved, pedigree ivy plant.  
He gaped for a while, before the boy cleared his throat and offered a little wave. “Hi. Sorry to bother you. Are… are you closed?” 

“Erm.” Sousuke swallowed. He forced himself to meet the boy’s eyes. Fuck. They were just as vibrant and startling as the tattoo. “No, we’re not. I just opened a couple minutes ago, actually.” 

“Oh.” The boy smiled in relief. “That’s good. It would’ve been very rude of me, to let myself into a closed flower shop.” 

“Mm,” Sousuke managed to grunt. 

“Well, do you mind if I work on some sketches, here? I was hoping to use your some of your irises for reference.” 

“Reference,” Sousuke echoed. 

“Yeah. I, erm, actually am a tattoo artist for the parlor across the street,” the boy said, nodding to the window. “I just had a request for a flower design, and I wanted some up-close reference while I’m fleshing out the idea, so…” 

“Oh. Sure,” Sousuke said. He forced himself to turn away and busy himself with slipping behind the counter. “As long as you’re not in the way of other customers later…” 

The boy started. “Oh, no, I promise I won’t be! It’ll be like I don’t even exist, I swear. I’ll be out of your way as soon as possible.” 

I’d rather you be IN my way, actually. Long enough for me to taste those nice lips of yours, at least. That’s what Sousuke wanted to say, but he decided against voicing it, and settled with grunting an ‘it’s fine’ and retreating to the back to busy himself with bags of fertilizer. 

 

——-

He stayed for a couple hours longer than Sousuke anticipated. Customers came and went, but the boy with the ivy tendrils stayed, sitting cross-legged in a corner with his sketchbook in his lap. He rarely looked up, but when he did, it managed to be the exact moment that Sousuke had been attempting to steal a glance. Which meant Sousuke hurriedly looking away and scowling in annoyance that a) he’d been caught and b) he’d let himself look in the first place. This pretty, pretty boy was much too distracting for his own good. 

It wasn’t until it was well past noon that Sousuke caught the boy looking, for the first time. He’d been tending to the poppies on the counter when his skin prickled with someone’s gaze, and he looked up just in time to see the boy eyeing his ass. The boy jumped when he turned, flushed, and quickly looked down at his sketchbook. The pleasant pink of his cheeks, like the soft rosiness of a petunia’s funnel-like petals, was only highlighted by his dark clothes and piercings, and an oddly fond smile forced its way to Sousuke’s face before he stop it. He caught himself and forced his gaze back to the poppies, inwardly grumbling about damn strangers staring at him and distracting him with their nicely-flushed cheeks and incredibly intricate tattoos.

—–

The boy came back the next day, to Sousuke’s pleasant surprise. He politely asked to sit again, and Sousuke grunted his agreement, furiously fighting the heat that was attempting to rise to his face. He disappeared behind the counter for the majority of the day, and the boy sat again in his corner, right inbetween the lily pots and iris pots. He looked up less than before, even when Sousuke was stealing glances. Either the boy knew he was looking and was ignoring him, or he was very invested in capturing the iris’s likeliness. Sousuke swallowed his disappointment and continued working. 

He didn’t have time to be distracted, anyway.

—–

The boy came again and again. Always with the same request on his lips, always in the same corner. On the fourth day, Sousuke offered him a pillow to sit on, since the tile couldn’t be very comfortable. The boy beamed up at him as if Sousuke had given him the world, and gave him such a sincere ‘thank you’ that Sousuke nearly keeled over from a visual overdose of sugar. 

On the sixth day, Sousuke brought him a glass of pink lemonade and a tissue box, as the boy wouldn’t stop sneezing from all the pollen. The boy had accepted them the same way he’d accepted the pillow, and Sousuke’s heart thumped with a desire to shower him with more little gifts. 

On the seventh day, the boy offered to help him reapply price tags to flower pots. Sousuke told him it was fine, that he should probably focus on his customer’s sketches, but the boy insisted that he had plenty of time and that he rather liked coming to Sousuke’s shop, anyways, so he was in no hurry to finish. So they’d spent the day at each other’s sides, and the shop was filled only with the chomping of the price stamp and the occasion snippet of soft conversation. 

Sousuke learned his name that day, too: Tachibana Makoto. A surprisingly feminine name for a ridiculously tall, tattooed, pierced guy who wore mostly dark clothes, but Sousuke thought it suited him. ‘Sincerity’ was a good name for someone who never failed to smile so genuinely, as if he had honey resting on his tongue and someone’s hand always clasped in his. He smiled like he was in love, and Sousuke thought he’d never met someone whose smile so perfectly matched his name. When Sousuke tested it out, it was as if the sweetness of it had been infectious. He felt as if he were breathing softness when he said Makoto’s name. 

On the tenth day, Sousuke sat with him and asked to see his sketches. Makoto hesitantly showed him. They weren’t what Sousuke had expected at all. They were undeniably irises, but they were explosive, nearly non-objective. They were lovely and flower-like in a chaotic, other-worldly way, and Sousuke voiced his thoughts without realizing it: 

“I’ll never see irises the same, again.” 

Makoto flushed pink. He blinked in surprise for a moment, before letting out a bell-like laugh that seemed to turn every flower towards him. “That’s very sweet of you to say, Sousuke-kun. Thank you.” 

“It’s the truth,” Sousuke replied simply, turning away before Makoto could see the pink in his cheeks. “Maybe I’ll have you give me a tattoo like that.” 

Makoto lifted his pierced eyebrow. “Really?” 

“Well… Maybe not. I’m kinda nervous around needles.” 

Makoto laughed again, and it felt as if a hundred little daisies had suddenly bloomed in Sousuke’s stomach. Before he could protest, Makoto ripped the sketch cleanly out of the book and placed it gently in his hands. “You can have this, then. Maybe it’ll inspire your irises to bloom next year, as well.” 

“Wait. Makoto. I can’t accept this,” Sousuke insisted weakly. He held the sketch by its corners, afraid to crinkle it. “This is for your customer.” 

“I have a thousand just like it,” Makoto replied, waving a dismissive hand. “It’ll probably be more appreciated with you, anyway. I throw out all of my old sketchbooks when I finish them.” 

“But-” 

“No buts. I already ripped it out, so it would just be rude to give it back,” Makoto said. He smiled that sunflower-shaming smile of his. “Consider it payback for the lemonade and the pillow.” 

Sousuke gave him a half-hearted scowl. Which was odd, since he’d never been one to half-ass a scowl, before. “You’re more stubborn than I expected, Makoto-kun.” 

“I’m a lot of things that you wouldn’t expect,” Makoto said, wrinkling his nose teasingly. 

Sousuke found himself returning the mischievous smirk. “I don’t doubt it.”

——–

On the nineteenth day, Sousuke asked to see Makoto’s tattoo. 

They’d just been chatting, and Sousuke’s attention had, as usual, shifted to the ivy tendrils that danced across Makoto’s skin. He spoke before he realized his lips had even parted. 

“Alright. I’ve waited long enough. How on earth did you manage to get a tattoo like that?”

Makoto blinked in surprise at the sudden change of topic. He lifted a hand to brush his fingers across the ink on his collarbone, his eyebrows coming together. “Oh. Do you not like it?” 

“No, no, I like it,” Sousuke blurted. He winced. “It’s… really nice, is what I mean. Did you design it, or…?” 

Makoto’s worried expression melted into another soft smile. “No. My friend Haru gave it to me, actually. He’s a much better tattoo artist than I am, and I’ve been bugging him about inking me forever. He only agreed a couple years ago, on my birthday, and I asked him to do ivy tendrils.” 

Sousuke nodded thoughtfully. “Why didn’t he give you one, before?” 

“Something about me ‘not needing the healing touch of the ink,’” Makoto said, rolling his eyes. “Haru’s weird, like that. He’s very picky about his clients.” 

Sousuke snorted. “That is weird.” 

“Yeah. But he’s sought after frequently enough for his work that he can afford to be picky.” Makoto shrugged. “What can I say? People are naturally drawn to his art.” 

“And they’re not to yours?” Sousuke asked, lifting an eyebrow. 

“Well, I’ve got a pretty stable stream of customers. I don’t get calls at the dead of night consecutively like he does, but I’m usually pretty busy.” He smiled, absently rubbing the ink along his collarbone. “It’s perfect for me. Tattooing is stressful, but it also pays, so a good, sound amount of clients is just right. I don’t know how Haru deals with all those people chasing after him.” 

“Can I see all of it?” Sousuke heard himself ask. He and Makoto both started, equally surprised at his words. He cleared his throat and glared at the ground. “Sorry. That was a stupid thing to-” 

“No, no, it’s okay,” Makoto said, his voice an octave higher. He laughed. “You’re definitely not the first to ask. I just didn’t expect you of all people to mention it.” 

Sousuke looked up. “Why?” 

Makoto flushed. “W-well, it’s usually just girls who ask me…” 

“Oh.”

“Yeah…” Makoto said, offering a sheepish smile. “Um, but I don’t have a problem with showing you. Just, maybe not in the middle of your shop…?” 

“Oh. Oh, right.” Sousuke got to his feet and helped Makoto up, his skin itching with frustrated embarrassment and anticipation. He led Makoto to the back room, where all the premature buds were still nestled, their fingers dwindling against each other. Sousuke closed the door behind them, his knees feeling traitorously weak, when he realized how cramped it was back here. Makoto stood in front of him for a moment, shifting from foot to foot, before letting out a short exhale and crossing his arms over his torso to slide his shirt up and off. The action ruffled his hair, reducing the short back strands of his undercut to mostly chestnut fluff. He dropped his shirt and spread his arms out. 

“…Ta-da?” 

“Um.” Sousuke swallowed, his gaze instinctively and slowly falling from Makoto’s collarbone to his toned stomach, and settling on the strong v-line that curved from his hips and descended past his belt. He caught himself and snapped his gaze back up to Makoto’s face, and Makoto stared back at him with flushed cheeks and wide green eyes. There was no possible way he’d missed that rather obscene scan that Sousuke had done of his body. Sousuke resisted the urge to duck back into the safety of the shop’s front room and curl up under his dwarf hydrangea bush. 

He focused instead on Makoto’s tattoo. His incredible, delicate, awe-inspiring tattoo. The ivy tendrils curled past his collarbone, swirling across the tan, freckled skin of his right pectoral, and peeked across his bicep, their hands thinning and spiralling. It was just as beautiful as Sousuke had expected. And, admittedly, a little arousing. Something about the way a certain ivy tendril encircled Makoto’s nipple was much too attractive for its own good. 

“Wow,” Sousuke breathed. Before he realized what he was doing, he lifted a hand to brush a finger along the path of one ivy stem. Makoto stiffened at his touch, and Sousuke froze. He immediately retracted his hand. “Sorry.” 

“I-It’s okay.”

“I’m… just used to touching the real thing. I forgot myself, there.” 

“I understand.” Makoto offered him a smile. “Haru’s work tends to do that to people.” 

“Or it might just be you,” Sousuke replied, because, as it turned out, he couldn’t for the fucking life of him think before he spoke around Makoto. 

Makoto’s face underwent a tsunami of expressions in a matter of seconds: cheeriness, confusion, realization, horror, embarrassment, and a thousand inbetween that had no obvious name to them. He flushed bright pink, his cheeks changing from the rosiness of a petunia to the deep scarlet of a poinsettia. The color gradually spread down to his collarbone and up to his ears, and with his bright green eyes, ivy-tendril-tattoo, and flushed face, he looked more like a striking flower than he ever had before. If Sousuke hadn’t been internally screeching and asking God to strike him down, he would’ve smiled like an idiot at the hopelessly adorable spectacle. 

He lost track of what happened after that. Something snagged in Makoto’s green eyes, something sharp, and suddenly he was lifting his ivy-tendrilled arm to cup the nape of Sousuke’s neck and tugged him closer. Suddenly his bare chest was so close that Sousuke felt as if he were going to suffocate, and suddenly Sousuke could see his reflection in Makoto’s eyes in excruciating detail. 

And suddenly Makoto’s mouth was pressing gently against his, barely more than a whisper of a touch. Sousuke’s mind slowly caught up. 

Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit… 

Shifting to autopilot, Sousuke felt himself kiss Makoto back, their lips fumbling over each other. He let his hands drift to Makoto’s hips, his thumbs hesitating over the bare skin just above his belt. Maybe it was just because they were in the back of a flower shop, but all Sousuke could comprehend was the smell of daisies and daffodils on Makoto’s skin. His lips were as soft as velvet rose petals, and just as flexible, sliding and pursing against Sousuke’s. Even his fingers, delicately pressing against Sousuke’s neck, had the fragility of flower stems to them. 

It was like kissing the human incarnate of a garden.

Makoto pulled away, his gaze dropping the moment his eyes opened. He laughed nervously and took a step back, crossing his arms over his bare chest, the ivy tendrils bunching with the action. “Sorry. Um. You… You really shouldn’t say things like that, Sousuke-kun. I n-never know what to, and I end up doing stupid things like, well, that.” He gestured vaguely at him. He flushed pink and adjusted his glasses. “Sorry.” 

Sousuke didn’t reply. He didn’t think he was capable of replying. When Makoto’s gaze met his, he just grumbled something under his breath, shrugging a couple times and shoving his hands into his pockets. Like a fucking idiot. Here was a half-naked, ivy-tendril-clad boy with cool piercings and a hot haircut who had just kissed him, and all he seemed capable of doing was mumbling and fidgeting. If he hadn’t dethorned the roses on the shelf to his left just earlier that day, he would’ve gladly used them to stab himself repeatedly. Maybe then his suffering would come to an end. 

“Um. W-well, I guess I’ll just…” Makoto cleared his throat, his face still a bright scarlet. He leaned over and picked his shirt up, shoving it over his head and pulling it down over his stomach. He hesitated, before taking a pen out of his back pocket, gently grasping Sousuke’s wrist, and scribbling a row of numbers on the inside of his arm. “I-I’ll probably be back tomorrow for the, erm. Reference. But if you’d want to, I don’t know, call me before that…” He dropped Sousuke’s hand and laughed nervously. “Or not. You know. Whatever. Sorry.” 

He turned to the side to slip past Sousuke, and Sousuke’s body seemed to decide that this was the time to fucking move. He twisted and caught Makoto’s wrist, his heart in his throat. Makoto let out a yelp of surprise at his sudden touch. They stared at each other for a few painfully awkward moments, before Sousuke managed to open his mouth and eke out a reply. 

“I will. Call you, I mean. If you want me to, I will Because I want to.”

“Oh.” Makoto blinked at him. The corners of his lips quirked up in pleasant surprise, and his face flushed pink all over again. “I… I want you to.”


	3. Makoharu #70

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> solarlunarx asked: MakoHaru, 70 please? ;3  
> 70: “You’re so beautiful.”

“It’s really not that big of a deal. You’ve posed nude before, haven’t you?”

“Y-yeah, but this is different. I’ve actually heard of this artist,” Makoto mumbled into the phone’s speaker as he walked, staring hard at the sidewalk so as not to draw attention to the obvious pink in his cheeks. “I mean, it’s Nanase Haruka, Kisumi. Nanase Haruka. His figure paintings are legendary.”

“But that’s a good thing, isn’t it? You’ve been hired to model for a famous artist! Yay!” Kisumi said from the other end, his voice encouraging. “You should be flattered.”

“Of course I’m flattered. Really, I am.” Makoto groaned. “But I’m so nervous. I’m gonna fall over in the middle of his sketch, or fall asleep standing up, or forget all of the pose numbers, and I’ll have wasted a prestigious artist’s time. He’ll throw me out like last night’s leftovers.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?”

“No. It’s come to the point where I’m legitimately afraid that he’s going to kick me out without any clothes on. And I’ll have to find my way home wearing nothing but a napkin I found on the street.”

“Mako, really. It’s going to be fine,” Kisumi insisted. “You’re a great model. Why else would somebody like Nanase Haruka contact you?”

“Maybe because he needed a good laugh,” Makoto said, his shoulders slumping. He brought the slip of paper with Nanase’s address out of his pocket and checked the street sign above his head, before taking a left. “I’m so nervous, Kisumi. I’m going to die.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“I might. I might just keel over in the middle of our private session. Butt naked. Kisumi, he’s going to be stuck with my butt-naked corpse in the middle of his art room.”

“Makoto, relax. What happened to all those months of growing a protective shell around your embarrassment? You’ve come so far. It’s just another job, for another snooty artist who isn’t going to say anything for three or four hours. Use the tactic we’ve been using up until now.”

Makoto frowned. “Pretend that I’m a landscape, or something?”

“Exactly. It’s the most effective trick in the book.”

“I guess…” Makoto mumbled. He slowed, lifting his gaze up to the swirling silver letters above an apartment building’s glass doors. He checked Nanase’s address again, his stomach knotting, and sighed. “Alright. I’m here. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck, Mako. You’re going to be awesome. Just you wait, Nanase’s going to capture the beauty of your bare body like a boss.”

“Kisumi…”

“Sorry, sorry. Just get in there. You’ll be great.”

“Thanks. Talk to you later,” Makoto said. Kisumi returned the farewell, and he sighed, closing the call and slipping his phone into his back pocket. He craned his neck back to look up at the ridiculously tall apartment building, set his shoulders, and moved to walk through the large glass doors.

——-

Nanase’s apartment was on the very top floor, fortunately enough. Makoto was grateful for the extra time in the elevator to quickly remind himself of all of the most popular poses of a life-drawing model, mentally picking at the ones that Nanase was mostly likely to ask of him.

He stepped out into the hallway and paroused the apartments doors, muttering to himself as he searched for the number that was written with Nanase’s address. 846. It sat at the very end of the wide hallway, it’s golden plaque flashing invitingly. Makoto took a deep breath and approached it, rapping his knuckles on its wooden surface. He stepped back, clasping his hands and setting his shoulders. Here we go.

The door opened with a click, and a young man peered up at him from behind it, before opening it all the way. Makoto blinked down at him in surprise. He looked about his own age, with obsidian, neat hair that fell into bright blue eyes. He was undeniably attractive. His pale face was heart-shaped and youthful, and he was obviously pretty athletic, if not a little wiry.

“Hello,” Makoto said, wincing. “I’m Tachibana Makoto. I’m here to pose for Nanase Haruka…? Does he live here?”

“I’m Nanase Haruka,” the young man replied.

“O-oh. Oh!” Makoto started, panic creating a tight knot in his stomach. “I’m so sorry, Nanase-kun. I just didn’t expect you to be so-”

“Young? Yeah. I know. I get that a lot,” Nanase said. He turned and motioned Makoto inside. “Come in, Tachibana-kun. If you don’t mind, I’d like to start right away.”

——

Forty minutes later, Makoto was strewn across Nanase’s floor, his bare stomach to the ground and his head resting against the pillow of his arms. He’d brought his own, simple sheet to lay out and pose on, so his naked body wouldn’t be sitting on Nanase’s carpet for a couple hours, and Nanase had given a short nod of satisfaction. He had requested a simple, non-dynamic pose, one that a lot of beginners began with. That surprised Makoto, considering Nanase’s reputation, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t grateful. With his stomach to the floor like this, he didn’t feel as exposed. Granted, he was still naked in a prestigious artist’s living room, but he was grateful, regardless.

Nanase sat cross-legged in front of him, an impressive drawing board propped up by one hand. His blue gaze flickered from the paper to Makoto and back, like the constant fidgeting of a bird on a wire. Makoto’s skin prickled under those intense eyes. He wanted to move, to hide his flushed cheeks, but he’d been a model long enough to know that the slightest of movements could end in the total failure of an art piece. He focused on blinking, on keeping his breathing shallow and the muscles in his lower torso relaxed.

I’m a model. A prop. A landscape. I don’t move, no matter what. Landscapes don’t move.

Nanase’s gaze steadily moved down his body with the scraping of his pencil on the paper. Those blue eyes, as brilliant as the sun-touched spray of a wave, traced every inch of him in excruciating detail, hovering over the dip of the small of his back and the curve of his shoulder blades. When they flicked to Makoto’s ass, Makoto resisted every instinct to tense up and look away, an embarrassment he hadn’t felt while modelling for a while making his stomach knot. It really didn’t help that Nanase’s pink tongue grazed his lips a couple times as he drew that… area. Makoto thanked his lucky stars that they’d chosen this pose first, because arousal at being regarded like this was beginning to swirl in his lower abdomen and press against the sheet.

What was wrong with him? He was a professional. They both were. Stop getting flustered and just hold still, Tachibana.

“You’re so beautiful,” Nanase said, his voice barely audible. It was a statement. An unquestionable, short remark. Makoto’s body screamed with the effort needed to not immediately tense up and roll away. He blinked at Nanase, feeling heat rise to his face, but didn’t say anything.

I’m a landscape. A perfectly still, perfectly inanimate landscape. Landscapes don’t blush. Landscapes don’t move. They just sit there and look pretty.

“What do you do?” Nanase asked, in that cool, expressionless voice of his. He didn’t meet Makoto’s eyes, and continued taking in the details of his body, his pencil snarling against the page. “Besides modelling. You’re very fit.”

“…”

“You can speak. Just don’t move.”

“O-oh. Well, I’m actually a writer,” Makoto murmured in a quiet voice. This wasn’t right. Nanase wasn’t supposed to talk to him. He was a landscape. Nothing more, nothing less. “A journalist, actually. But I swim in my free time, so…”

“A backstroke swimmer,” Nanase commented. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah. How did you-”

“Your trapezius muscles. They’re definitely a backstroke specialist’s.” His eyes fell to Makoto’s legs as he sketched. “And your thighs. The only other swimmers with thighs like that are breastroke swimmers, but you’re too tall for that.”

“Oh. I see,” Makoto mumbled.

“How did you get into modelling?”

What were all these questions? Nanase didn’t seem like someone who was usually very chatty. Wasn’t he supposed to be focusing on drawing? “I actually got roped into it by a friend. She’s studying fashion design, and asked me to model some clothing for her. My other friend then got me in touch with an ammature modelling firm after that. The pay is nice, and I have the body for it, so I figured I might as well.”

“Modest, aren’t you?” Nanase asked, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

Makoto’s face flushed bright red. He had to harden every muscle in his body to keep from fidgeting. “Y-you’re the one who called me beautiful.”

Nanase hummed in agreement. “It’s true, though. Why else would I contact you, Tachibana-kun?”

“F-fair enough.” Makoto curled his lips into a line to keep from nervously laughing. The action would’ve disturbed his shoulders. He fell silent again, pleased to focus again on remaining still. With nowhere else to look, he inspected Nanase’s face: the curve of his lips, the gentle touch of his long eyelashes on his cheeks, the stray strands of dark hair around his ears. He really was quite attractive… It wasn’t exactly an unpleasant surprise, finding that he was so young. If they were somewhere else, and if Makoto had clothes on, he might’ve attempted to talk to him, maybe ask for his number. Makoto was hardly a very forward person, but rarely did he stumble upon someone so intriguing and… visually pleasing.

Ugh. He sounded like Rei, thinking something like that.

“Alright. Move to pose 43, please,” Nanase said suddenly, slipping the piece of paper in front of him to the side and locking a new one into place on the drawing board. Makoto immediately got up on all fours and slipped into the familiar position, flopping onto his back, stretching his arms over his head, and arching his spine upward. He bent one knee, the other craning flat against the sheet. This position was a harder one to hold, but he’d done it enough times to know where to center his focus so he wouldn’t move. It was a demanding pose, (nobody’s back was meant to arch like that for very long,) and Makoto’s record time for holding it was twenty minutes. Which was quite impressive, considering.

Nanase inhaled sharply, which caught his attention. He looked out of the corner of his eye at the artist. Nanase was studying his stomach and crotch with interested eyes, his jaw set and a vein in his neck popping. He licked his lips rather obscenely. The hand holding up the drawing board gripped the stable material hard enough to make his pale knuckles turn to marble. Makoto made a surprised squeaking sound in his throat and quickly looked away, staring hard at the ceiling. Heat rose to his face, and the tightness in his lower abdomen was beginning to strengthen.

Please don’t get a boner, please don’t get a boner, please don’t get a boner….

He thought about his grandparents. His siblings. The portly man that lived down his street with a turtle that he walked every day on a leash. Anything, besides those gorgeous sapphire eyes studying him closely.

Nanase began drawing again. There was a hardness in his gaze this time as he studied Makoto’s body, and Makoto was 90% sure he hadn’t imagined in the flush in his ivory cheeks when he began sketching Makoto’s groin. It was actually really cute, seeing that charming pink accompanying the little determined pout. If Makoto wasn’t blushing furiously himself, he would’ve been tempted to arch his back a little more in hopes of a more exaggerated reaction.

“Raise your hips,” Nanase said softly, his pencil hesitating on the paper. Makoto flinched and complied, tensing his legs enough to ease himself off the sheet ever so slightly. Nanase gave a short nod of satisfaction. “And… crane your neck back.”

This was seriously disregarding the anatomy of pose 43, but Makoto complied, tilting his chin up, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. Nanase made a sound in the back of his throat, almost a purr of approval, that went straight to Makoto’s crotch.

Dammit. C’mon, Makoto. Old people, lizards, the whining of his siblings on Christmas morning…

“Maybe turn your head towards me,” Nanase said, his voice infuriatingly soft.

Makoto gulped. “I d-don’t think that’s part of the pose-”

“I want to see your face.”

It was starting to get very, very hard to hold this position. A single bead of sweat dripping from his hairline, Makoto turned his head. Their gazes immediately locked, and for some stupid reason, Nanase looked just as taken aback as he probably did. The world momentarily froze. Nanase wetted his lips again, his thin eyebrows crinkling in the slightest, as if they were seeing each other for the first time. Makoto swallowed. His muscles were beginning to ache from continually arching his back, and that intelligent, sharp gaze seemed to be stealing all the breath from his body. He could feel a burning heat in his face. Keeping this pose and meeting those unwavering eyes was like juggling a pair of knives.

“Nanase-kun…?” He ventured, his breath short. He glanced at Nanase’s hand on the drawing board: clenched so tightly that his knuckles were the color of the paper itself. “Um. Aren’t you going to draw…?”

Nanase started, his face flushing. He frowned, as if disturbed by his own reaction, and looked hard at the paper. “Nevermind. It… would probably be best if you didn’t look at me.”

“Oh. Um. Alright, then.” Makoto turned his gaze back on the ceiling. His skin continued to prickle with Nanase’s gaze, and his muscles were beginning to scream in protest on holding the position.

I am a landscape. A silent, perfectly still landscape. Landscapes don’t think their artists are cute. Landscapes don’t blush, or fidget, or get turned on by their artists licking their lips or giving orders.

He closed his eyes and let out a determined sigh.

I am a landscape. And landscapes don’t wonder if their artist would be willing to go out for coffee, sometime.

——-

“Thank you for coming, Tachibana-kun,” Nanase said in a flat voice, once Makoto was safely dressed again and a couple more sketches had been done. He handed Makoto a slender envelope, and Makoto felt the crinkle of bills inside. “I’ll be contacting you again, I think.”

“Oh. T-thank you,” Makoto mumbled, his cheeks heating up. He offered a warm smile. “It was a pleasure to model for you. I hope we can work together, again.”

Nanase gave him an odd look, his thin lips pulling together in a pout. He glanced away. “I… look forward to it.”

“Me too.” Makoto felt his smile widen. The horrible embarrassment from before was beginning to ebb, and he now had a bundle of bills in his hands. Not bad. He turned to leave, giving Nanase a little wave of farewell. “Take care, Nanase-kun. And good luck with your beautiful work.”

“Thank you,” Nanase replied, his cool voice strained. He hovered on the doorstep, his fists balled at his sides, and Makoto turned his back on him feeling an odd twinge of guilt. It felt wrong, leaving the artist looking so unsatisfied. But that didn’t make any sense. He’d done everything he’d been asked of, and Nanase had said that they’d be working together, again. So why did Nanase seem so tense?

“Wait,” Nanase spoke suddenly, and Makoto stumbled to a halt at the firm but hesitant command. He turned to face the artist.

“Yes?”

“Haru.”

“I’m… I’m sorry?”

“Haru. I want you to call me Haru,” Nanase said, looking away. He looked so frustrated with himself that Makoto almost felt a twinge of pity. “No more ‘Nanase-kun.’ I saw you naked, so I think you’ve earned the right to call me by my given name.”

“Oh.” Makoto blinked. His smile widened, and he laughed. “Okay. Then please, call me Makoto.”

He turned to walk away again, but Haru interrupted his departure with a grunt. “Um.”

Makoto didn’t turn all the way around, this time. He looked over his shoulder, offering his best, most comforting smile. The one that seemed to put the grumpiest of people to ease. “Yes?”

Haru didn’t meet his gaze. He glared down at the carpet of the hallway, shifting his weight. “You have my card. It has my personal and work phone number on it. Feel free to call, if you have any questions. I’m not very good with answering, but I’ll get your message. Eventually.” 

Oh. Oh, wait.

Was Makoto imagining this, or was Nanase Haruka asking him… to ask him out?

An entirely new nervousness began to bloom in Makoto’s stomach. It was the pleasant kind, the ‘oh-this-person-might-actually-be-interested-in-me’ kind. Not the ‘shit-this-person-is-hot-and-if-I-move-then-I’m-fired-and-on-the-streets’ kind. He had to say, it was a pleasant change of pace.

He smiled at Haru like an idiot. Like a complete, utter idiot. “I won’t hesitate if I have concerns, then.”

Haru visibly relaxed. His expression remained neutral, but something akin to relief flashing in that striking gaze. “Good.”

They exchanged their farewells for the second time, and Makoto got in the elevator wondering how the hell he’d started this with full intentions of getting naked in front of a stranger, and finished it with an invitation for a date, an envelope of money, and a very odd warmth in his chest.

Kisumi had mentioned a seafood place downtown that had just released a new menu. Makoto wondered if Nanase Haruka liked mackerel.


	4. Kagehina #8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> neibotfk asked: Kagehina: 8: “Wanna bet?”

They meet in Venice.

Beautiful, beautiful Venice, with its old architecture and its misty January mornings and its rich storm clouds that thunder with the sound of boats at the docks.

It’s the perfect weather for a tourist like Kageyama, who hates crowds, heat, and noise with a burning passion. He’d gone out of his way to make sure his vacation would fall on the couple of weeks in the year that the little city would expect the most rain. The cobblestone walkways would be bare, the empty canals would ripple with sharp, gentle wind, and the rolling growl of a brewing storm would sing with the snarl of the tower bells. The nights, chilly enough to demand a coat, would be perfect for silent walks through the winding trails. And when he was satisfied with the day, he’d return to his tiny, beautifully built hotelroom and fall asleep on the comfy little couch with a coaching book on his chest. The pitter patter of the rain and the song of the boats would be his lullaby for the next couple of weeks. It was to be the trip that would trump all trips.

Kageyama didn’t go on vacations to feel something foreign or new or interesting. Kageyama went on vacations to feel at home in a place away from home. Thus, Venice in January was perfect.

Or, it would’ve been, if it weren’t for the fucking moron who’d shoved him into a canal.

Kageyama wasn’t really sure what happened. One moment, he was happily walking down a narrow walkway with his head down and his hands in his pockets, and the next, something solid stumbled into him and pushed him straight over the edge of the cobblestone street. The world tipped, and suddenly he was being swallowed up by cold, stinging water and the horrible taste of fish. He’d barely had time to let out a startled shriek before water swamped his mouth and forced its disgusting self down his throat. He tried to get a hold of himself and swim to the surface, but his limbs refused to cooperate.

Kageyama… He’d never been the best of swimmers, after all.

A rough hand surged through the water and grasped his collar from behind. Suddenly he was being yanked back up, the current pulling at his clothes at the resistence, and cool, miraculous air hit his face again. He breathed in greedily, his lungs aching from the cold.

“Fanculo! Stai bene?” a gruff voice demanded over the ringing of his ears. The hand fastened around his collar yanked again, and suddenly Kageyama was out of the water and slumped in the tiny belly of a tipping gondola, shivering terribly. A gigantic italian man with a beard that could rival St. Nicholas’s crouched over him with a worried expression. “Signore? Riesci a sentirmi?”

“I’m f-f-f-fine,” Kageyama managed, his teeth chattering. He blinked repeatedly, trying to make sense of what had just happened. “W-w-w-wha-”

“Shit! Are you alright?” A shrill, panicked voice said in fluent Japanese from the cobblestone walkway, and Kageyama mustered the energy needed to turn to look. A young man, about his age, peered at him with horrified amber eyes, his face blanched. “I’m so, so, SO sorry!”

The italian gondola driver clicked his tongue. “Stronzo cazzo.”

“O-oi!” the young man snapped, his cheeks flushing. When he spoke again, it was in sharp italian. “Non era mia intenzione! Non l'ho visto-”

“Ya, ya,” the gondola driver cut him off with a dismissive wave. He retrieved his gondola stick from where it sat at the head and pushed the boat to the side, up against the wall. He barked something else in italian at the young man, who nodded hurriedly and bent over the boat to help Kageyama to his feet. Kageyama stumbled, but managed to heave himself back onto the cobblestone walkway.

“You okay?” the young man asked, slipping his hoodie back to reveal a head of bright orange hair. “Shit. I really am super sorry, sir. I swear I didn’t see you. I was just trying to get a picture for my friend, and I must’ve ran into you, because all I heard was a ‘Gwuh!’ and ‘Sploosh!’ And-”

“W-w-w-what the hell is wrong w-with you?” Kageyama snapped through his chattering teeth. He bundled his soaked coat closer around himself, hoping to find some warmth whatsoever. “D-d-dumbass! Watch where you’re g-g-going, next time!”

The young man dropped his hands and gave him an insulted look. “No need to shout! I said I was sorry.”

“I’m going to get hy-hyp-hypo-”

“….Hypothermia?”

“Y-yes!” Kageyama spat. “D-d-dumbass!”

“Stop with the dumbass, will you?” The young man pouted up at him, his hands popping up to rest on his hips. “I get it, I messed up. But you know, you could’ve been looking where you were going-”

“D-d-d-don’t,” Kageyama hissed, pointing a finger at him in warning. The intimidation of the gesture was lost, however, considering that his finger shook uncontrollably.

The man winced. “Geez, you’re soaked to the bone! You should get home. Where’s your…?”

“M-my hotel’s by t-the Tolentoni bridge.”

“Geez! That’s on the other end of the city!” he yelped, those vibrant eyes of his growing wider. “Did you walk all the way here?”

“I-it’s a small city,” Kageyama grumbled. A cool, wet wind hit, and he shivered horribly, every inch of his body stinging from the cold.

“Well, you can’t get all the way back like this. C’mon, my apartment’s just around the corner.”

Kageyama gave him an indignant look. “Are you c-crazy? I don’t e-e-even know you! Y-you pushed me into the f-f-f-fucking canal!”

“I’m Hinata Shoyo,” the young man said simply, as if that would clear it all up. He pinched Kageyama’s dripping sleeve and tugged him forward. “You’re a tourist, right? You must be, if you speak Japanese. What’s your name?”

“K-Kageyama Tobio,” Kageyama replied automatically. Dammit.

“Well, I have clean clothes and hot cocoa,” Hinata offered. “And I’m super, super sorry, so I might even give you some of my freshly baked cookies. Even though you called me a dumbass. Twice.”

Hm. That definitely sounded nice. And now that he thought about it, walking all the way back to his hotel with legs that could barely function and a lightness in his head didn’t seem all that appealing.

“You’re not a serial killer, are you?” Hinata asked, smiling in infuriating triumph when Kageyama allowed himself to be pulled forward. “You kinda have the face of one, but I’m not sure if that’s just from the cold or not. I’d rather not give cookies to a serial killer, now that I’m thinking about it.”

Kageyama sputtered. “D-d-du-”

“Dumbass,” Hinata finished for him, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Alright, smelly. Follow me.”

——-

“Yeesh. You’re shaking like a leaf!” Hinata exclaimed, the door of his apartment clicking shut behind him. He shrugged his jacket off and slipped around Kageyama to help him peel his wet coat from his tall frame. “Let’s get that off of you. You’re going to smell like fish forever, if you keep it on.”

Kageyama’s teeth were chattering too much to allow a reply, so he just settled with giving his host a sharp glare. Hinata pointedly ignored him, pinching the collar of the dripping coat between two fingers and hurrying into another room. “I’m gonna put this in the bathroom to dry. I’ll get you some other clothes too, so just sit tight.”

Kageyama didn’t really have much of a choice. He stood stiffly, taking the opportunity to take in the little apartment he’d been shoved rather unceremoniously into. It was cozy, despite the fact that it looked like a bomb had gone off in the middle of the living room. Clothes and magazines were strewn out everywhere, and posters, calendars from various years, and photos cluttered the narrow walls. The entire place smelled of vanilla, which was a wonderful contrast to the laky scent Kageyama himself was emanating. His eyes fell on a heater against the wall, and he shuffled over to it, leaning into its warmth greedily. The trickling sensation of some heat against his legs was like tasting the elixir of God.

“Okay! I’m back,” Hinata chirped, striding back into the front room with an armful of clothing. “Your coat really does smell, so I sprayed the bathroom with all my good deodorant and lit a couple candles. You can put your other stuff in there too when you’re done changing.” He held out the clothes for Kageyama to take. “You’re a lot bigger than me, so they might be a tight fit, but I got the biggest I could find. Hopefully that’ll be enough.”

“T-thank you,” Kageyama grumbled, taking the clothes with white, shaking hands. He cleared his throat. “Um. B-b-bathroom?”

“Down the hall,” Hinata said, motioning vaguely over his shoulder. “You get changed, and I’ll get on those cookies and hot chocolate.”

Kageyama grunted his thanks and shuffled forward. He managed to find Hinata’s bathroom tucked away around the corner, and slipped in and locked the door behind him. His coat hung dejectedly from the shower curtain’s bar. It was quickly accompanied by the rest of Kageyama’s clothes, including a pair of dripping underwear with little stars on them. (Of all the days to be pushed in a canal, and he had to wear those.) He slipped into the clothes Hinata had provided, desperate for a little warmth. They were baggy clothes, - a t-shirt with paint splotches all over it and sweatpants, - but they still managed to cling to his tall, narrow frame. They smelled nice, though. Like artificial nectarine cleaner.

When he found his way back into Hinata’s front room, Hinata was busying himself with piling a heap of blankets on his peeling couch. He looked up when Kageyama entered and beamed. “Look! Blankets! Snuggle up, Kageyama-kun. We’re getting progressively closer to you forgiving me, I think.”

Kageyama just grunted awkwardly. At Hinata’s insistent look, he settled down into the blankets and pulled them around himself.

“There we go,” Hinata said, smiling wide. The brightness of that smile could rival the brilliant golden petals of a sunflower. He patted the blankets fondly, as if Kageyama was a little kid he was tending to. “I’ll get you some cookies. The hot chocolate is heating up now, so you’ll have to wait for that.”

Kageyama didn’t reply. He closed his eyes and sank into the warmth of the blankets, revelling in the feeling of warm, dry material against his skin. When he opened his eyes again, Hinata was holding out a plate full of misshapen chocolate chip cookies with an inviting, innocent smile.

“T-t-they look like lumps,” he said under his breath, reaching for one.

“Oi! Is that anyway to say ‘thank you?’”

He bit into the cookie and shrugged. “You p-p-pushed me into a canal.”

Hinata pouted. “Well, aren’t you just a little ray of sunshine? I said I was sorry, and I’m giving you cookies and a change of clothes, aren’t I?”

Kageyama would’ve sent a stinging retort in response, but he was immediately distracted by the soft, gooey, chocolatey mess in his mouth. He hummed in approval and reached for another cookie, and Hinata’s pout dissolved into another blinding smile of triumph.

“Where are you from?”

“M-M-Miyagi prefecture.”

“No kidding! Me, too!” Hinata straightened and laughed. “What a small world.”

Kageyama grunted in agreement, shoving his second cookie into his mouth.

“What brings you to Venice? It’s not really tourist season,” Hinata mused, tilting his head in a way that made him look undeniably like a curious, red-headed puppy. “You here on business?”

“No. I’m a t-t-tourist. J-j-j-us-t-t-t…” He paused, scowling in frustration, before trying again. “J-just wanted to beat the masses. And I l-like the weather.”

“Really?” Hinata squawked in horrified surprise. “I hate this weather! If I could, I’d catch the next flight to Hawaii and stay there until summer comes back.”

“W-w-what are you doing in Venice?” Kageyama said, reaching for a third cookie.

Hinata’s shoulders slumped. He selected his own cookie and chomped down on it. “I’m actually taking courses while I stay with my aunt. Things are… kinda complicated, back home, so I’m hanging around here for a year or two.”

“And you know italian?”

Hinata shrugged. “Yeah. My aunt’s always spoken italian, so I already knew a little bit. But once I got here and I realized I wouldn’t be able to make any new friends in Japanese, I started learning the language. It’s not that hard, if you spend a lot of time around people. I still have trouble reading, though.”

Kageyama glowered. He’d been trying to learn English for nearly six years, and he still couldn’t carry out a conversation to save his life. And this kid was fluent in a latin language from only talking to people? That was ridiculous. “How old are you?”

“Why? You gonna steal my identity?” Hinata teased. He laughed at Kageyama’s face. “Kidding, kidding. I’m twenty. You?”

“Twenty two.”

“Whoa, really? You look older! It must be that scowl of yours. You’re gonna get wrinkles, you know, if you keep glowering like that.” Kageyama gave him a withering look, and he flinched. “Oi, stop, you’re making it worse.”

“You look like you’re sixteen,” Kageyama shot back.

He expected Hinata to get worked up over that, too, but he just laughed. “Yeah, I get that a lot! It’s a nightmare, trying to buy a drink sometimes. The old beggars here love pinching my cheeks when I give them change, too.”

Kageyama didn’t reply, a little overwhelmed by how easily this guy opened up. He focused instead on his third cookie, taking a monster bite out of it and enjoying the way it melted on his tongue. For someone who squawked and flitted around so easily, Hinata wasn’t a bad cook. He wasn’t about to admit that, though.

Hinata got up and returned with the finished cup of hot chocolate, placing it gently into Kageyama’s quivering hands. He sat down in front of him again and started talking about stuff Kageyama had no context to, and Kageyama settled with tuning him out as he enjoyed the steaming, sweet liquid that made his blue lips warm again.

By the time the mug was completely drained and the cookie plate was empty, Hinata had burned himself out. He let out a puff of exhaustion from the nonstop chatter and swiped his fingers around the plate, gathering crumbs and popping it into his mouth. Kageyama sighed. He looked down at himself, at the horrendous clothes on his body and the quiver that remained to his actions. Walking home would be a problem.

“This is the worst,” he growled under his breath.

Hinata snorted. “Wanna bet? When I first came to Venice, a bird pooped right on my head, a guy stole my wallet, and I was nearly taken out by the security guys at the Guggenheim museum.” When Kageyama gave him a look, he waved a dismissive hand and laughed. “Long story.”

Kageyama was more than a little tempted to hear that story, but he didn’t comment on it. He scowled down at his empty mug, drumming his fingers against its ceramic surface. “I don’t know how I’m going to get back to my hotel, now. I can’t go anywhere in these stupid clothes.”

“Hey!” Hinata pouted. “I like those clothes.”

“Well, I don’t. And I can’t walk all the way back in them. I’ll freeze all over again.”

Hinata huffed. “I was going to offer you my couch for the night, but if you’re going to keep up with this jerky attitude, maybe I’ll just turn you back out onto the street in your wet clothes.”

Kageyama looked up and lifted an eyebrow. “What?”

“I m-mean, I’m not actually going to-”

“No, about me staying for the night.”

“Oh,” Hinata mumbled, his shoulders slumping. He smiled nervously. “Yeah, I figured I owe you a place to stay for the night. Since I, well, you know.” He winced. “You’re not going to be able to make it home before midnight, even if you leave now and catch a gondola ride. You smell like a walking fish, anyway. You’d probably be attacked by a gang of cats on your way back. And I have Japanese movies! You’ll be all dry and ready by tomorrow morning.”

Kageyama narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know you, though.”

“You know me enough to eat all of my cookies,” Hinata said, giving the empty plate a bitter look. “I was going to bring those to Yachi’s art exhibition, too…”

“Oh.” Kageyama frowned. “You should’ve told me, then. Dumb-”

“-Ass,” Hinata finished for him. He shrugged. “It’s cool. I’ll make more. But anyways, you should stay. Unless you want to trudge all over the city at night.”

“Hm.” Kageyama studied him with a thoughtful pout. He had a good point… No matter how much Kageyama loathed the idea of spending the night in a stranger’s foreign home, he loathed the idea of stumbling home in the freezing dark even more. One night wouldn’t hurt, surely. His clothes would be dry by the morning, and there was no way he was walking back in a stained, baggy t-shirt and sweatpants.

He hesitated. “Japanese movies?”

Hinata perked up. “Uh, yeah! All kinds!”

“Do….do you have ‘Letters from Iwo Jima?’”

“Oh. Oh, yeah,” Hinata said, that bright smile of his widening. “Does that mean you’re staying?”

Kageyama frowned, feeling his face heat up. “Yeah, I guess. Thanks.”

Hinata gave him such a satisfied, innocently triumphant look that made his toes curl. “No problem, Kageyama-kun.”


	5. Soumako #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> getseth asked: Sousuke x Makoto, #1 :)  
> #1: "Come over here and make me."

“Makoto, you’re so great.”

“Thanks, Sousuke.”

“No, you don’t understand. Like, really great. The best,” Sousuke continues in a slur, smiling goofily down at the ground. His feet fumble against the cement of the sidewalk, and Makoto struggles to keep him upright, positioning his arm more securely around his shoulders. To keep Sousuke from keeling over and face-planting on the ground, Makoto holds his roommate’s waist tightly with his free hand, his thumb snagged in his belt loop. Sousuke leans heavily on him, and the unpleasant mixture of his cologne and the fermented, sour scent of alcohol is enough to make Makoto gag.

What a great way to spend their Friday night. If Sousuke weren’t in such a pitiful state, Makoto would be very, very annoyed with him. He’d been sitting in their little Tokyo apartment, snuggled up on their peeling couch with a half-eaten bag of popcorn, when an unknown number had called and a guy with a gruff voice had asked if he could come pick up his ‘drunk buddy’ from the bar down the street. Fortunately Sousuke always carried Makoto’s number around, (he’d gotten horribly lost in the armpit of the city one too many times,) so he hadn’t been stranded there for too long, but at Makoto’s expense. He’d left in such a frustrated panic that he hadn’t even swapped his slippers out for sneakers.

So here they are, stumbling up the front stairs of their apartment building, Sousuke practically being dragged by Makoto. Who is still in his pajama sweatpants and tight tank top, as he’d come to realize a while ago. If the orca slippers and the drunk guy didn’t draw enough attention to them, that certainly does the trick.

Makoto isn’t entirely sure why Sousuke got himself this drunk, and he chooses not to dwell on it. He has a few suspicions, none of them good, but he decides that it’s best to blame it on Sousuke having a wild urge to get like this. It’s unrealistic, (Sousuke’s about as likely to get wild urges as Nagisa is to find an interest in anything academic,) but it’s the best that Makoto can settle with, right now. He reminds himself to ask Sousuke about it later. When he’s sober, preferably.

“I love you,” Sousuke slurs, as Makoto shoves them both rather unceremoniously through the revolving door. He laughs, practically giggles, and it sounds beyond strange in that deep voice of his. “You’re so great.”

“I love you, too, Sousuke,” Makoto says absently. He’s too busy trying to keep Sousuke upright to pay any mind to what either of them are saying. Sousuke’s drunk, after all. He doesn’t mean any of it. “Watch your footing, here. The tile’s a little slippery.”

“Like ice skating,” Sousuke comments, his smile borderline idiotic.

Makoto holds his hip and arm tighter, in case Sousuke decides now is the time to slide around on the flats of his feet. In these slippers, he doubts he can keep both of them up. “Yeah. C’mon, big guy. We’re almost there.”

“Big guy,” Sousuke echoes. He gives Makoto a weird look. “Who you callin’ ‘big guy?’ You’re the same size as me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Makoto says, sighing. He lets go of Sousuke’s arm around his shoulder long enough to hit the ‘up’ button that neighbors the elevator. It pings and slides open, and he manages to maneuver them both into its closed quarters. It’s hardly a simple task, considering their apartment building’s elevator is tiny as fuck and they’re both over six feet, but they manage. “Can you press the button?”

“Yeah,” Sousuke mumbles. He pouts at the display of faintly glowing buttons, before jabbing at their floor’s number with a rough finger. “There.”

“Good job,” Makoto says, giving his back a reassuring pat. The elevator begins to inch its way upward. The familiar groan of its gears and the sudden lightness under their feet makes Sousuke sway. He laughs to himself and rests his forehead against Makoto’s shoulder, smiling wide again.

“Smells good,” he hums.

“Thanks,” Makoto replies, watching the digital number above the door count as they move higher. “I took a shower, tonight.”

Sousuke turns his face into the crook of Makoto’s neck. “Smells like… apple.”

The shampoo he uses is coconut, but close enough. Makoto touches Sousuke’s elbows gently in warning when the elevator slows and the doors slide open. “Mm-hm. Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

Sousuke grudgingly lifts his face from Makoto’s shoulder and allows himself to be led into the hallway, his feet dragging. He looks down at Makoto’s slippers as they walk and laughs lightly, and Makoto rolls his eyes. This isn’t the first time he’s encountered a drunk, giggly Sousuke, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. When Sousuke’s drunk, everything is funny.

“Here’s our apartment, Sou,” Makoto warns, tugging him to a stop in front of their door.

“I know,” Sousuke replies absently. He reaches for the doorknob and twists. When it doesn’t budge, he scowls in irritation. “Makoto, it’s broken.”

“No, it’s not. It’s locked,” Makoto says. He shoos Sousuke’s hand away and unlocks the door with his key, before pushing it open. Sousuke lets out a puff of embarrassed laughter before moving inside. He sticks a hand out to steady himself against the wall, and Makoto slips in after him, closing the door behind them with a click. Sousuke stumbles back against his chest, his arms awkwardly held out in an attempt to stay upright. He’s dangerously close to falling on his ass, so Makoto grips his hips and pushes him forward, towards his bedroom.

“Whoa,” Sousuke breathes. He allows himself to be pushed, and stops obediently when Makoto stills him in front of his slender bed by the wall. His warm hands find Makoto’s on his hips and he laughs. “How forward of you, Mako.”

Makoto rolls his eyes. He slips his hands out from under Sousuke’s, and takes him by the shoulders to gently ease him onto the bed. “Stay here and get out of those clothes, okay? I’m getting you some water.”

“Out of these clothes,” Sousuke echoes. Another laugh falls from his lips, and he smiles wide, dimples appearing in his alcohol-flushed cheeks. Makoto resists the urge to poke one fondly. Sou should smile like this more often. His dimples are cute.

“I’ll be right back,” he says over his shoulder, and moves into the other room to get a glass of water, shedding his slippers as he goes. The cuffs of his sweatpants are damp from trudging through puddles, and they cling to his ankles uncomfortably. He does himself a favor and slips them off as he flips the tap on with a cup waiting underneath. They’re left discarded on the kitchen floor, and he pads back to Sousuke’s room in his briefs, making a mental note to pick them up and wash them later.

“Sousuke, I got you a glass of water,” he says gently as he swings back around the corner. He frowns when he sees that his roommate hasn’t moved, and is inspecting the thin cotton sheets of his bed with a great interest. “What are you doing? I thought I told you to get out of those clothes.”

Sousuke looks up, his thick eyebrows lifting in an expression that is much too innocent for its own good. He smiles mischievously and leans back. “Come over here and make me.”

“Make you?” Makoto says. He sighs and moves to put the glass of water on the bedside table. “Why do I have to make you? You’re big. You can do it yourself.”

Sousuke gives him a look through lowered eyelashes, and it probably would’ve been seductive, if he weren’t grinning with the anticipation of a little kid at Christmas. “But I want you to undress me.”

A heat rises to Makoto’s face before he can gather the focus to keep it at bay, and he clears his throat. He’s drunk. Horribly, horribly drunk. It doesn’t mean anything.

“Makoto,” Sousuke sing-songs, his deep voice filling the little room. He leans over to graze the back of Makoto’s thigh with a couple of hot fingers, and Makoto can’t suppress a shiver. “Help me?”

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s acting like a child.

“You don’t need help,” Makoto says, and he’s eternally grateful to the universe for letting his voice remain gentle, yet dismissal. “I’m not undressing you, Sousuke.”

Sousuke laughs. Its vibrant, rich with the sleepy enthusiasm of alcohol. “Why not? We’re both guys. It’s no big deal.” He tries for a serious face and fails miserably. “No homo, right?”

“Sousuke, neither of us are straight.”

“Shhh.” Sousuke closes his eyes and holds a finger to his lips. He snags the elastic of Makoto’s briefs, (prompting a yelp,) and tugs him closer. “Makoto. Help me with my buttons?”

“Fine,” Makoto bites, concluding that a drunk Sousuke is just as stubborn as a sober Sousuke. Knowing him, he won’t budge on getting what he wants. Which is admirable, in some aspects, but Makoto’s hardly appreciative of that particular character trait now. He takes the collar of Sousuke’s button-up shirt in his hands and begins to undo it with careful fingers, pointedly ignoring Sousuke’s lazy gaze watching him. He can feel those eyes on his face, tracing his features as he works at the buttons, and a shiver goes up his spine.

“You’re pretty,” Sousuke hums, when Makoto’s almost finished with his shirt. He laughs to himself as Makoto undoes the last button, and he slips it off his shoulders. “Prettier than a lot of the other roommates I’ve had.”

“T-thanks.” Makoto takes the shirt and throws it towards the door.

“And I’m pretty.”

“Yes, Sousuke. You’re very pretty.”

“Prettier than your other roommates,” Sousuke muses. He doesn’t object when Makoto makes works at his stained jeans, unzipping them and slipping them down his thighs as non-sensually as he can. “The guy you lived with before. Real ugly.”

“He wasn’t that bad,” Makoto says, tugging at Sousuke’s shoelaces and worming his sneakers off of his feet so he can get rid of the jeans entirely. It looks as if Sousuke will be sleeping in his underwear, tonight. Makoto doubts he’ll be able to convince him to put something else on. “He was really nice, and he did the dishes without being asked.”

“Ugly,” Sousuke replies simply. He watches, rolling his bottom lip underneath his teeth, as Makoto gathers his clothes up and dumps them with the shirt, next to the laundry bin. “You… like having me for a roommate?”

“Well, I’m not particularly liking it now, but yes.” Makoto gives him a tired smile. “I do.”

Sousuke returns the smile, tilting his head to the side. The orange light from the lamp on the bedside table plays with the crevices of his bare chest, curling with the places he bends and straining with the places he keeps rigid. Makoto lets his gaze dwindle a tad longer than what’s appropriate. It’s not like Sousuke will remember, after all.

“I don’t like having you as a roommate, though,” Sousuke says in a soft voice.

“Oh?” Despite himself, Makoto feels a twinge of hurt. “Why not?”

“Cause you’re just so…” Sousuke scowls, trying to find the right words. “You’re too good.”

Something in Makoto loosens with relief. “Oh. Yeah, you’ve said that before.”

“No, really. You’re too good,” Sousuke says. He laughs, as if it’s utterly hilarious. “You’re too irresistible, you know? Too pretty, too nice, too…” He scrunches his nose up. “Good.”

“I understand, Sou,” Makoto says in a comforting voice. This isn’t the first time Sousuke has teased him about being an ‘angel.’ He comments and grumbles about it often, and Makoto’s more or less gotten used to it. He touches his shoulder and eases him back to rest against the pillow. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Sousuke insists. His smile fades, and his fingers wrap around Makoto’s wrist, holding him still. Those eyes, glazed with sleepiness and alcohol, meet his. “You’re too good. I wanna kiss you, an’ touch you when you walk around in your underwear, an’ talk to you forever when you’re sad. It’s not good when you’re too good.” He pouts. “‘Cause I wanna love you, and that’s not good for me to want. No homo for the roommates. Rin would kill me.”

All Makoto can do for a long time is blink. And breathe, but barely. He suddenly feels his heartbeat in his face, and there’s a rock in a stomach, and a ringing sound in his head, and a shiver in his legs. He progressively blushes from his ears to his collarbone, his cheeks heating up at such an impressive speed that it’s a wonder that he hasn’t exploded yet.

Shit.

“Nngh,” he manages, slapping a hand over his eyes. “S-Sousuke.”

“Yes?” Sousuke replies innocently.

“D-don’t… H-how long…”

Sousuke gives him a tired, sympathetic look, and lifts an arm to pat his cheek. “‘S okay. You’re not going to remember this, anyway. You’re drunk.”

“Sousuke, you’re the one who’s drunk,” Makoto hisses. He turns away, dragging a hand down his burning face and whimpering into his palm. “Oh, gods.”

“What?” Sousuke says in genuine confusion. “Wait. No.”

“Yes.”

Sousuke contemplates this for a couple seconds, before letting out a puff of laughter. “Oh.”

“D-dammit, Sousuke,” Makoto groans. He flicks the lamp off with shaking fingers and quickly makes a beeline for the door. It feels like his entire body is about to combust with shocked embarrassment. “G-g-go to sleep. I’m gonna… yeah. Gonna b-be in the other room.”

“Wait,” Sousuke says, but Makoto closes the door behind him before he can continue. He hurries over to the couch and flops down across it, burying his face into a pillow in hopes of taming the blush. He stays like that for a long time, his heartbeat in his head. He wills his mind to go completely blank, controlling the panicked thoughts running around as best as he can, but frantic questions pop up again and again.

Is he serious?

How long?

Is this just the alcohol talking?

Can alcohol even affect someone so much, that they say things like that without any full meaning behind them?

IS HE SERIOUS?

Amidst the extreme blushing and frantic thoughts, Makoto feels something… pleasant, in his chest. Something warm, and almost exhilarating.

Like the feeling of a distant hope being realized and confirmed, almost.

Makoto groans again and buries his head further into the pillow.

Well, fuck.


End file.
